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Poems from tbe Crencbes 



Printed and Published by 

CLAN SUTHERLAND, No. 191 

Order of Scottish Clans 

Brookline, Mass. 



m 29 1918 



J 



f»OEMS 



FROM 



THE TRENCHES 



BY 

Lieutenant E. Craigie Melville 

Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders 
Member Clan Sutherland, 191, O. S. C. 



SOMERVILLE. MASS. 

THE THISTLE PRESS 

19 16 






©CU497678 



^% *: 



PREFACE 

These poems, written by the author while in the 
training camps in England and in the Trenches, are 
a fitting tribute to the part Scotchmen, not only 
from the dear old Heather Hills, but from the four 
corners of the world, are playing in the titanic 
struggle to establish world democracy. 

History repeats itself, and the valor and gal- 
lantry, together with the unselfish sacrifice of the 
sons of "Old Scotia," is again being recorded to be 
passed along to future generations. 

Ever cheerful under the most adverse condi- 
tions, Scotchmen are always ready to appreciate 
the humorous as well as the serious side of life; 
there is a strain of both fittingly set forth in these 
verses. 

Almost every phase of the British Tommies' 
life is touched upon. Hearing his country's call, 
Leaving the folks back home, Training in camp, and 
the horrors of actual modern warfare. The char- 
acteristic optimism and confidence of ultimate vic- 
tory is clearly the uppermost thoughts of these 
Boys who so mildly put it down as simply "doing 
their bit." _ 

Early in 1915, the author, Ernest Craigie Mel- 
ville, who was a member of Clan Sutherland, O. S. 
C, gave up his business in Boston, Mass., and re- 
turned to his native Scotland, enlisted as a private 
in the Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders, went 
to France with his regiment, where he participated 
in the actual fighting. His study of conditions 
over there was the inspiration for these poems. 

He was gazetted Second Lieutenant in 1917, sub- 
sequently being ordered to India with his old regi- 
ment, where he is now stationed. 



CONTENTS 

Page 

The Argylls 1 

The Kilties 2 

A Prayer 3 

A Tribute 4 

The Price 5 

The Vagabond Trail ...... 7 

The Pioneers 8 

Maconachie 9 

Fatigues 14 

A Limit Game 16 

In Camp 18 

For Luck 20 

Call of the Dead 21 

Humour 23 

The Puzzle 25 



THE ARGYLLS 

You can pick him out in the khaki throng, 
By the jaunty way he steps along, 

Those boys of the braw Argylls ; 
His dress somehow looks a trifle cleaner, 
The cut of his limbs just a wee bit leaner, 
His eye has a look that's somewhat keener, 

Those boys of the braw Argylls. 

In a lordly way he swings his kilt, 
His voice has aye a laughing lilt. 

Those boys of the braw Argylls ; 
His friendships aye a wee bit truer, 
The girls all say he's a dandy wooer, 
When he drinks he can aye get a wee bit fouer. 

Those boys of the braw Argylls. 

Of work he is ready to bear the brunt, 
You will find him somewhere in the front, 

His face aye wreathed in smiles ; 
His step is firm and a trifle lighter. 
He keeps his lips just a wee bit tighter. 
He has proved himself a bonnie fighter. 

Those boys of the braw Argylls. 



THE KILTIES 

They are Highland men, from misty glen, 

From islands of the sea ; 
A martial host to prove the boast 

That Scots were ever free. 
Straight-limbed and clean, with eye that's 
keen, 

Red-blood beneath their tan : 
O ! Glengarry and kilt and chin with a tilt 

Are signs of a fighting man. 

From the rugged north these lads came forth — • 

Sons of a fighting breed ; 
Not theirs to crawl or funk the call 

That came in hour of need. 
Grim-jawed and lean and proud of mien, 

You'll find them in the van, 
For Glengarry and kilt and chin with a tilt 

Are signs of a fighting man. 

With a jaunty spring and kilts aswing, 

And ribbons in the wind ; 
Although they're gone they still march on 

In hearts they left behind. 
With fearless eye and head held high 

They'll do the best they can,. 
For Glengarry and kilt and chin with a tilt 

Are signs of a fighting man. 



A PRAYER 

I'm tired of the town with its ordered roads, 
Of the cobbled streets and cramped abodes 

That cumber the city's sod; 
Of the sordid struggle for fame and pelf, 
Where it's little for other and most for self, 

And seldom a thought for God. 

Grant soundness of limb and length of days, 
To spend in the hills with their winding ways, 

Where clean winds blow from the sea; 
A pittance enough for my daily bread. 
The sky above, the heath for a bed — 

Lord, that were enough for me. 



A TRIBUTE 

Lt. W. L , killed in action July, 1917. 

Somewhere in France he fell, 
Him, whom we loved so well. 
Just how we cannot tell, 
But this I know — 
'Twas with a dauntless eye, 
Fearless and head held high 
In the way all heroes die, 
Face to the foe. 

Never himself he spared. 
But with his men he dared. 
All of their dangers shared. 

Leader and friend ; 
Unselfish, kind and brave. 
For others his life he gave. 
Now in a soldier's grave. 

Sleeps at the end. 

Not his to funk or crawl, 
When came his country's call. 
Gladly he gave his all, 

Welcomed the chance. 
Treasured his memory 
All through the years shall be. 
Ah, but the heart of me, 

Lies somewhere in France. 
4 



THE PRICE 

I didn't stop to reason — came when I heard 

the call, 
Back to the land of my fathers, knew they 

needed all ; 
Didn't stop to reason, although in a sort of way 
I knew that war is a costly game, and steep 

the price to pay. 

Wearisome months of danger for the sake of 

Right and the Truth, 
The sacrifice of precious years from a swiftly 

fleeting youth; 
Giving up cherished ambitions on the eve of 

being fulfilled; 
Risking loss of a business that has taken the 

years to build ; 
Cutting adrift from an anchorage — back 

from the Empire's edge ; 
'Tis destiny that the young men pay to keep 

the Empire's pledge. 
All of these did I give up gladly — paid when 

the bill came due. 
But I hardly expected that part of the price 

would be — YOU. 

Back from the hell of the fighting over in 
ravished France, 



spared — 1 can't quite figure it out, — by the 

will of God, or chance. 
Shattered a bit in health and limb, but other- 
wise sound and sane. 
Left, like many a better man, to begin all 

over again. 
With nothing of consolation but the thought ot 

a duty done. 
To give heart for the years ahead and a fight 

that's only begun. 
They're urging me on, those old-time dreams 

— urging to up and do ; 
With grit maybe I can win them back — all of 

them back but — YOU. 



THE VAGABOND TRAIL 

By hill and sea, where winds blow free, 

I walk a vagrant trail. 
And none have I for company 

Except the men who fail ; 
The restless ones, the younger sons, 

The Prodigal, the dud, 
The man from jail, beyond the pale, 

And those of gypsy blood. 
The so-called scum from city slum, 

The tramp, the pioneer; — 
We mush together on the Trail, 

And laugh at Life's veneer. 

No more for us Convention's fuss ; 

No more the cramped abodes ; 
Or ordered beats, on city streets — 

We walk the open roads. 
And then at night, with stars a-light, 

When winds blow fresh and clean, 
By campfire gleam, we smoke and dream, 

About the Might-Have-Been. 
But heed we must, the Wanderlust, 

All those who hear its call. 
We'll jest with Fate until the Great 

Adventure of them all. 



THE PIONEERS 

Ah, 'tis a glorious heritage you left us,— 

You, dear kilted lads who are gone ; 
For at sight of us French eyes glisten 

And French lips say "ficosse tres bon." 
Full well they know the part you played 

In many a fight from sea to Somme ; 
Often outnumbered but never afraid — 

"ficosse tres courageux homme." 

You didn't know much in their lingo line, 

With your "bongswar, Madam," and "No 
compree," 
But your constant grin and lifted chin, 

And undaunted hearts were good to see. 
They know we're sons of the selfsame breed, — 

That we're kith and kin of those lads who 
are gone ; 
So it is up to us by word and deed 

To play the game and carry on 



8 



MACONACHIE 

It's a bit of all-right to be quit of the fight, 
And back in Old Blighty once more ; 

With a wash and a scrub and decent cooked 
grub — 
That trench stuff was getting a bore. 

The sheets are so white, the room is so bright, 

The sky up above is so blue, 
That sometimes it seems as if it were dreams. 

Those terrible times I've been through. 

Needless to state I have tales to relate — 

Tales that are awful and queer. 
But take it from me, how I won my V. C. 

Is the queerest you ever did hear. 

Twelve month to a day, I was over the way, 
Just a-scrappin' to beat the band. 

Twelve months for meat did they give us to eat 
That stuff wot Maconachie canned. 

I liked it at first, and then I just cussed — 

It was comin' so often, you see. 
'Ow would yoii feel if at ev'ry blamed meal 

You got nowt but Maconachie ? 



One night I stretched out in my little dugout 

To get a few hours' repose. 
Dog-weary and sore I lay down on the floor 

Too tired to take off me clo'es. 

I soon fell asleep, in that dugout so deep, 
Forgot where I was, so it seems. 

In a moment or two I was sure passing thru 
The grandest of grand little dreams. 

I recollect well bein' hit by a shell 

That burst with a terrible roar, 
And a sulphurous smell that blew me to — well, 

There's no need to say any more. 

But I landed there quick, was met by old Nick, 
Who was really exceedingly kind. 

Says the Old Boy to me, "Will you join us 
at tea?" 
Says I, "Thankye, sure I don't mind." 

So without more ado I went with his crew, 
They gave me the choicest of seats. 

With a wave of his hand, Nick gave the com- 
mand 
To hurry along with the eats. 



10 



Says I to myser, "Old Scout, you've done well, 

This sure is a bit of allright." 
But just then and there I jumped from my 
chair. 

For I saw a most horrible sight. 

Those servants of sin all came troopin' in, 

And each of them leerin' at me. 
And on every tray I saw that there lay 

Nowt but this of Maconachie ! ! 

Well that was enough — ^just the sight of the 
stuff, 

I waited to see nothing more. 
But I up with a yell, that startled all Hell, 

And I made for the open door. 

I flew up some stairs that led out somewheres, 

It was blacker than inky smoke. 
I jumped o'er a wall — and the shock of the fall 

Gave me a jolt — and I woke. 

And there then was I, out under the sky, 

Just a-runnin' to beat the band. 
Through barbed wire and trench and the awful 
stench 

That is known as "No-Man's-Land." 



11 



Before I could stop, I was right on the top 

Of a crouchin' German patrol, 
That was out that night and hidden from sight 

Down in a big shell-hole. 

At sight of me they were scared as could be, 
I guess they thought I was mad, 

For they down on their knees, and shouted 
"Oh please, 
Have mercy on us, Kamerad." 

Well wot could I do but see the game through? 

I took all their pistols and guns, 
Then makin' signs, I showed them our lines, 

And marched in those five little Huns. 

When our Colonel saw me, he was pleased as 
could be, 

His face beamed all over with joy. 
Says he, "Every gent in this old regiment 

Is proud of you, tonight, my boy." 

"You sure have got sand, here give me your 
hand," 
He shook it with manifest glee. 
"Ne'er another such stunt has been done at 
the front, 
I'll see that you get the V. C. 



12 



Of course 1 said nowt how it all come about, 
(The wise owl has nothin' on me). 

But as long as I live, the credit I'll give 
To old Mister Maconachie. 



13 



FATIGUES 

There's a certain hour of evening that I have 

come to dread, 
It is the hour when decent folks are thinkin' 

of their bed ; 
But I'm sure to be goin' with a working-gang 

instead, 
A-slitherin' through the mud and rain. 
So we trudge along a labyrinth of never-endin' 

trench. 
With heavies burstin' overhead (Lor' they do 

make a stench. 
Say, this wouldn't be a bad place to come 

walkin' with a wench — 
It looks just like a bloomin' country lane). 

It isn't always fightin' — this holdin' of the line. 
For we spend a lot of labor haulin' sandbags 

out a mine — 
By the number that comes up you'd think 

they'd reached the Rhine, 
(Ain't this bloomin' war never goin' to end?) 
We heave them o'er the parapet, Lor' how 

those boys can swear, 
When Fritz sends o'er a whizbang or a nasty 

flick'ring glare, 
Or gets his ticker goin' — wq sure do get a 

scare, 

14 



When first I joined the army I thought 'twould 

be subHme 
To be iightin' for my country in France's 

sunny cHme, 
But instead I am workin' for the R. E.'s half 

the time, , 

Like any bloomin' navvy with a spade. 
We do all the work it seems, the R. E/s get 

the pay. 
They get three shillin's and us — a measly bob 

a day. 
Lor' in the British army don't they have a 

funny way, — 
Oh, the miles and miles of trenches that 

I've made. 

But while we're here we plug away and do our 

very best; 
The thing that keeps us goin' is the rumor 

of a rest — 
Alas ! that now has got to be an ancient sort 

of jest. 
(Even the grim god of war has got to have 

his fun.) 
It's a long, long lane, you know, that has no 

end in sight. 
And we'll come marchin' homeward some 

morning's dawning light ; 
So hustle, boys, get busy, and work with all 

your might, 
Every little bit helps to down the Hun. 

15 



A LIMIT GAME 

Are you dreaming the long, long dreams of 

Youth, hoping to make a name? 
Are you trying to win a woman's love? Are 

you after wealth or fame? 
Would you build your house on the boulevard, 

sit in the halls of State, 
Or quest in the realms of science and art and 

win a place with the Great? 
Whatever it is you're out to win, no matter, 

it's all the same, 
Don't play the part of a piker, pard, and make 

it a limit game. 

Don't want to show how much you care, so 

your feelings you try to hide? 
Holding out a bit maybe, for the sake of a 

foolish pride? 
Are you stonewalling at the w^icket — afraid 

you'll be bowled or caught? 
It's the man who takes a chance on the ball 

that flogs them over the lot. 
x\re you tackling your man half-heartedly, 

fearing a kick or fall? 
Go into the game for all your worth, or don't 

go in at all. 



16 



Are you playing a limit game or playing for 

all you've got? 
Have you only a little at stake, or is your all 

in the pot? 
He who ventures a little in life only a little 

gets. 
I knoAv, for I played that sort of game and it 

only brought regrets. 
Never won much, but I might have won more 

by the other way. 
If I lost, knowing I might have won had the 

limit been away. 

For fortune favors the brave, you know, likes 

ever a reckless sport ; 
She smiles on the man who takes the risks, 

and laughs at the other sort. 
Has never a use for the cautious, the timid or 

shrivel-souled, 
But the chosen ones she makes her sons are 

the Devil-may-care and Bold. 
So play as men of red-blood play. Let the 

craven laugh or scoff, 
Fourflush in the game for all you've got, and 

play with the limit off. 



17 



IN CAMP 

Dear old draughty wooden hut that is Num- 
ber 42, 

There's not another Hke you if I search the 
whole camp thru ; 

Your walls are full of crannies and your roof 
leaks like a sieve 

You may be dinky-looking, but an awful place 
to live. 

The rain comes thru in torrents, a draught 
beneath the door. 

And I rise in the mornings early with body 
aching and sore. 

Still I shall hate to leave you for the sake of 
those splendid nights 

When the long, hard day is over and Sergeant 
has douzed the lights, 

And we lie on those beds of straw that unfor- 
tunate Tommies get, 

And jestingly jolly each other as we smoke 
a last cig'rette ; 

The hut rings with our laughter as each man 
spins a yarn ; 

Of the long hard fight ahead, well, no one 
gives a darn. 

Or somebody sings a solo — one of the heart- 
gripping kind, 

18 



While each of us thinks of his ain folks and 
the girl he left behind. 

I've a permanent dose of rheumatics, so I'll 
long remember you, 

Dear old draughty wooden hut that is Num- 
ber 42. 



19 



FOR LUCK 

"Parcels up," the orderly cried, 

And we crowded round to see. 
He gave them out to the joyous-eyed. 

But never a one for me. 

So I turned away a trifle sad, 

When along came Will McCue. 
"Never you mind," he said, "my lad, 

For I've got enough for two." 

As he opened up that box of luck 

I noticed his eyes a-swim. 
A wee white sprig o' heather for luck 

She had put on the top for him. 

And Will I saw he swallowed hard ; 

I had a lump in my throat. 
"It stands for a woman's prayer, old pard," 

And he fastened it to his coat 

But scarcely had the words been said, 

And hardly the action done, 
When a sniper got him through the head, 

(Cursed be that son-of-a-gun). 

So we buried him over the top at night. 
Deep down in the Flanders muck. 

And wrapped with him in his ground sheet 
tight 
Was the sprig o' heather — for luck. 

20 



CALL OF THE DEAD 

Canna ye see them yet? — those laddies who 
marched away 

With pipers playing brawly and kilts and rib- 
bons gay, 

With their upturned sunny faces, their laugh- 
ter and their fun? 

To think, O, God, 'twere mine to see them 
falling one by one ! 

But never a one with faltering step — stoutly 
and unafraid, 

They tackled the tasks that came their way ; 
paid — to the Hmit paid. 

Dinna ye hear them calling .... above the 
bullet's whine ? 

List, and ye'll hear them calling, those com- 
rade dead of mine. 

Still are they carrying on, with the light of 
faith in their eyes, 

With laughter and sun in their hearts to the 
heights of Paradise. 

There at the hands of a kindly God I know 
that all is well 

With the lads who quested to war, and joked 
when they found its hell. 



21 



Here at my post alone, where the sky is flam- 
ing red, 

I vision them — I hear them call, that host 
of comrade dead. 

It's gripping me, and haunting me, aye by this 
thought obsessed. 

That I want to go now, with those who were 
bravest and best. 

Now — when the road to the heavenly heights 
is thronged with soldier young. 

Rather than wait for a tardy fate, and pass 
alone and unsung. 



22 



HUMOUR 

The machine guns they are spitting, the big 

'uns roar and bark, 
The Verey Hghts, hke magic stars, are dancing 

in the dark, 
And shrapnell shells are bursting overhead. 
A score of weary Highlanders, whose jaws are 

grim and set, 
Are crouching 'neath the cover of a crumbling 

parapet; 
Around them lie the dying and the dead. 

Alone of all that company that started out 
with pride. 

Had crossed the dreaded "No-Man's-Land" 
and reached the other side, 
And then we knew the sacrifice was vain. 

The wily Hun had dropped a barrage of cur- 
tain fire. 

There was nothing left for us to do but wait 
the word — ''Retire" — 
Go back across that hellish stretch again. 

I was thinking of a girl, who is all my heart's 

desire. 
Of the old folks sitting then beside a cosy 

kitchen fire, 
In a cottage in that grey town by the sea. 

23 



I was thinking of my chum lying back there 

stiff and dead, 
Who'd often wished a "bHghty," but got 

"vapor" instead, 
And fervently was wishing I were he. 

Then I heard the sound of laughter come from 

Jock McGee, 
Who is bomber in my section and was lying 

close to me ; 
Just then it sounded odd and mighty queer. 
"I'm thinkin' o' ma mither, back yonder in her 

cot," 
He explained — "and the funny piece of advice 

that I got 
When I left to do ma wee bit over here" 

"When you get over yonder amid the shot 

and shell. 
Oh, Jock, be sure and see and aye tak' care o' 
yerseV" 
"I remember them's the very words she 
spoke." 
He pointed to the shrapnel that was flying 

, all around, 
To our crumbling parapet nearly levelled to 
the ground, 
"Say, Sergeant, don't you see the bloomin' 
joke?" 

24 



THE PUZZLE 

Billy and I, we enlisted both in the same Scot- 
tish town, 

Joined the same battalion and were sent to 
the same platoon. 

Had never met before, but thrown together 
by chance ; 

We became the best of pals and drifted to- 
gether to France. 

Billy was only a youngster — just a rookie 
fresh from school ; 

Put his books away when he heard the call. 
I'm — well, just a fool. 

Life, with the years ahead was his, with every 
promise of fame ; 

Mine is a record of failure with none but my- 
self to blame. 

He was a mother's pride and joy — sunny- 
eyed, straight and clean ; 

I claim kin to none on earth; been all I 
shouldn't have been. 

Billy, he was keen and bright, full of the zest 
of life ; 

I've played a losing game with Fate — just 
about sick of the strife. 

I have roamed to ends of earth at the lure of 
a vagrant call ; 



25 



Have seen the world and am satisfied. He — 

well hardly at all. 
I've had my chance — didn't take it ; didn't 

care if I passed away. 
But Billy was young and ambitious. Billy 

wanted to stay. 

Well, here I lie in hospital, where everything's 

clean and bright ; 
The doctor thinks in a week or two that I'll 

be quite allright. 
But poor little Billy I left in France 'neath a 

wooden cross. 
('Twas just like taking the gold away and 

sending back the dross.) 
Do things happen in any old way — is every- 
thing left to chance? 
Is this talk of Destiny and God only a bit of 

Romance ? 
Then why was Billy taken and me left here 

to rant? 
I don't understand. Have tried to figure it out 

— but I can't. 



H D 



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Treatment Date: ^^^Y 2001 

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A WORLD LEADER IN PAPER PRESERV/ 

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